Why Harney Rode Away for his Hat
COL. GRANGERFORD WAS a gentleman, you see. He was a gentleman all over; and so was his family. He was well born, as the saying is, and that's worth as much in a man as it is in a horse, so the Widow Douglas said, and nobody ever denied that she was of the first aristocracy in our town; and pap he always said it, too, though he warn't no more quality than a mudcat himself. Col. Grangerford was very tall and very slim, and had a darkish-paly complexion, not a sign of red in it anywheres; he was clean-shaved every morning all over his thin face, and he had the thinnest kind of lips, and the thinnest kind of nostrils, and a high nose, and heavy eyebrows, and the blackest kind of eyes, sunk so deep back that they seemed like they was looking out of caverns at you, as you may say. His forehead was high, and his hair was gray and straight and hung to his shoulders. His hands was long and thin, and every day of his life he put on a clean shirt and a full suit from head to foot made out of linen so white it hurt your eyes to look at it; and on Sundays he wore a blue tail-coat with brass buttons on it. He carried a mahogany cane with a silver head to it. There warn't no frivolishness about him, not a bit, and he warn't ever loud. He was as kind as he could be—you could feel that, you know, and so you had confidence. Sometimes he smiled, and it was good to see; but when he straightened himself up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun to flicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to climb a tree first, and find out what the matter was afterwards. He didn't ever have to tell anybody to mind their manners—everybody was always good-mannered where he was. Everybody loved to have him around, too; he was sunshine most always—I mean he made it seem like good weather. When he turned into a cloud-bank it was awful dark for half a minute, and that was enough; there wouldn't nothing go wrong again for a week.
When him and the old lady come down in the morning all the family got up out of their chairs and give them good day, and didn't set down again till they had set down. Then Tom and Bob went to the sideboard where the decanter was and mixed a glass of bitters and handed it to him, and he held it in his hand and waited till Tom's and Bob's was mixed, and then they bowed and said, “Our duty to you, sir, and madam;” and they bowed the least bit in the world and said thank you, and so they drank, all three, and Bob and Tom poured a spoonful of water on the sugar and the mite of whisky or apple-brandy in the bottom of their tumblers, and give it to me and Buck, and we drank to the old people too.
Bob was the oldest and Tom next—tall, beautiful men with very broad shoulders and brown faces, and long black hair and black eyes. They dressed in white linen from head to foot, like the old gentleman, and wore broad Panama hats.
Then there was Miss Charlotte; she was twenty-five, and tall and proud and grand, but as good as she could be when she warn't stirred up; but when she was she had a look that would make you wilt in your tracks, like her father. She was beautiful.
So was her sister, Miss Sophia, but it was a different kind. She was gentle and sweet like a dove, and she was only twenty.
Each person had their own nigger to wait on them—Buck too. My nigger had a monstrous easy time, because I warn't used to having anybody do anything for me, but Buck's was on the jump most of the time.
This was all there was of the family now, but there used to be more—three sons; they got killed; and Emmeline that died.
The old gentleman owned a lot of farms and over a hundred niggers. Sometimes a stack of people would come there, horseback, from ten or fifteen miles around, and stay five or six days, and have such junketings round about and on the river, and dances and picnics in the woods daytimes, and balls at the house nights. These people was mostly kinfolks of the family. The men brought their guns with them. It was a handsome lot of quality, I tell you.
There was another clan of aristocracy around there—five or six families— mostly of the name of Shepherdson. They was as high-toned and well born and rich and grand as the tribe of Grangerfords. The Shepherdsons and Grangerfords used the same steamboat-landing, which was about two mile above our house; so sometimes when I went up there with a lot of our folks I used to see a lot of the Shepherdsons there on their fine horses.
One day Buck and me was away out in the woods hunting, and heard a horse coming. We was crossing the road. Buck says:
“Quick! Jump for the woods!”
We done it, and then peeped down the woods through the leaves. Pretty soon a splendid young man come galloping down the road, setting his horse easy and looking like a soldier. He had his gun across his pommel. I had seen him before. It was young Harney Shepherdson. I heard Buck's gun go off at my ear, and Harney's hat tumbled off from his head. He grabbed his gun and rode straight to the place where we was hid. But we didn't wait. We started through the woods on a run. The woods warn't thick, so I looked over my shoulder to dodge the bullet, and twice I seen Harney cover Buck with his gun; and then he rode away the way he come—to get his hat, I reckon, but I couldn't see. We never stopped running till we got home. The old gentleman's eyes blazed a minute—'twas pleasure, mainly, I judged—then his face sort of smoothed down, and he says, kind of gentle:
“I don't like that shooting from behind a bush. Why, didn't you step into the road, my boy?”
“The Shepherdsons don't, father. They always take advantage.”
Miss Charlotte she held her head up like a queen while Buck was telling his tale, and her nostrils spread and her eyes snapped. The two young men looked dark, but never said nothing. Miss Sophia she turned pale, but the color come back when she found the man warn't hurt.
Soon as I could get Buck down by the corn-cribs under the trees by ourselves, I says:
“Did you want to kill him, Buck?”
“Well, I bet I did.”
“What did he do to you?”
“Him? He never done nothing to me.”
“Well, then, what did you want to kill him for?”
“Why, nothing—only it's on account of the feud.”
“What's a feud?”
“Why, where was you raised? Don't you know what a feud is?”
“Never heard of it before—tell me about it.”
“Well,” says Buck, “a feud is this way: A man has a quarrel with another man, and kills him; then that other man's brother kills him then the other brothers, on both sides, goes for one another; then the cousins chip in—and by and by everybody's killed off, and there ain't no more feud. But it's kind of slow, and takes a long time.”
“Has this one been going on long, Buck?”
“Well, I should reckon! It started thirty years ago, or som'ers along there. There was trouble 'bout something, and then a lawsuit to settle it; and the suit went agin one of the men, and so he up and shot the man that won the suit— which he would naturally do, of course. Anybody would.”
“What was the trouble about, Buck?—land?”
“I reckon maybe—I don't know.”
“Well, who done the shooting? Was it a Grangerford or a Shepherdson?”
“Laws, how do I know? It was so long ago.”
“Don't anybody know?”
“Oh, yes, pa knows, I reckon, and some of the other old people; but they don't know now what the row was about in the first place.”
“Has there been many killed, Buck?”
“Yes; right smart chance of funerals. But they don't always kill. Pa's got a few buckshot in him; but he don't mind it 'cuz he don't weigh much, anyway. Bob's been carved up some with a bowie, and Tom's been hurt once or twice.”
“Has anybody been killed this year, Buck?”
“Yes; we got one and they got one. 'Bout three months ago my cousin Bud, fourteen year old, was riding through the woods on t'other side of the river, and didn't have no weapon with him, which was blame' foolishness, and in a lonesome place he hears a horse a-coming behind him, and sees old Baldy Shepherdson a-linkin' after him with his gun in his hand and his white hair a-flying in the wind; and 'stead of jumping off and taking to the brush, Bud 'lowed he could outrun him; so they had it, nip and tuck, for five mile or more, the old man a-gaining all the time; so at last Bud seen it warn't any use, so he stopped and faced around so as to have the bullet-holes in front, you know, and the old man he rode up and shot him down. But he didn't git much chance to enjoy his luck, for inside of a week our folks laid him out.”
“I reckon that old man was a coward, Buck.”
“I reckon he warn't a coward. Not by a blame' sight. There ain't a coward amongst them Shepherdsons—not a one. And there ain't no cowards amongst the Grangerfords either. Why, that old man kep' up his end in a fight one day for half an hour against three Grangerfords, and come out winner. They was all a-horseback; he lit off of his horse and got behind a little wood-pile, and kep' his horse before him to stop the bullets; but the Grangerfords stayed on their horses and capered around the old man, and peppered away at him, and he peppered away at them. Him and his horse both went home pretty leaky and crippled, but the Grangerfords had to be fetched home—and one of 'em was dead, and another died the next day. No, sir; if a body's out hunting for cowards he don't want to fool away any time amongst them Shepherdsons, becuz they don't breed any of that kind.”
Next Sunday we all went to church, about three mile, everybody a-horseback. The men took their guns along, so did Buck, and kept them between their knees or stood them handy against the wall. The Shepherdsons done the same. It was pretty ornery preaching—all about brotherly love, and such-like tiresomeness; but everybody said it was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going home, and had such a powerful lot to say about faith and good works and free grace and preforeordestination, and I don't know what all, that it did seem to me to be one of the roughest Sundays I had run across yet.
About an hour after dinner everybody was dozing around, some in their chairs and some in their rooms, and it got to be pretty dull. Buck and a dog was stretched out on the grass in the sun sound asleep. I went up to our room, and judged I would take a nap myself. I found that sweet Miss Sophia standing in her door, which was next to ours, and she took me in her room and shut the door very soft, and asked me if I liked her, and I said I did; and she asked me if I would do something for her and not tell anybody, and I said I would. Then she said she'd forgot her Testament, and left it in the seat at church between two other books, and would I slip out quiet and go there and fetch it to her, and not say nothing to nobody. I said I would. So I slid out and slipped off up the road, and there warn't anybody at the church, except maybe a hog or two, for there warn't any lock on the door, and hogs likes a puncheon floor in summer-time because it's cool. If you notice, most folks don't go to church only when they've got to; but a hog is different.
Says I to myself, something's up; it ain't natural for a girl to be in such a sweat about a Testament. So I give it a shake, and out drops a little piece of paper with “half past two” wrote on it with a pencil. I ransacked it, but couldn't find anything else. I couldn't make anything out of that, so I put the paper in the book again, and when I got home and upstairs there was Miss Sophia in her door waiting for me. She pulled me in and shut the door; then she looked in the Testament till she found the paper, and as soon as she read it she looked glad; and before a body could think she grabbed me and give me a squeeze, and said I was the best boy in the world, and not to tell anybody. She was mighty red in the face for a minute, and her eyes lighted up, and it made her powerful pretty. I was a good deal astonished, but when I got my breath I asked her what the paper was about, and she asked me if I had read it, and I said no, and she asked me if I could read writing, and I told her “no, only coarse-hand,” and then she said the paper warn't anything but a book-mark to keep her place, and I might go and play now.
I went off down to the river, studying over this thing, and pretty soon I noticed that my nigger was following along behind. When we was out of sight of the house he looked back and around a second, and then comes a- running, and says:
“Mars Jawge, if you'll come down into de swamp I'll show you a whole stack o' water-moccasins.”
Thinks I, that's mighty curious; he said that yesterday. He oughter know a body don't love water-moccasins enough to go around hunting for them. What is he up to, anyway? So I says:
“All right; trot ahead.”
I followed a half a mile; then he struck out over the swamp, and waded ankle-deep as much as another half-mile. We come to a little flat piece of land which was dry and very thick with trees and bushes and vines, and he says:
“You shove right in dah jist a few steps, Mars Jawge; dah's whah dey is. I's seed 'm befo'; I don't k'yer to see 'em no mo'.”
Then he slopped right along and went away, and pretty soon the trees hid him. I poked into the place a ways and come to a little open patch as big as a bedroom all hung around with vines, and found a man laying there asleep—and, by jings, it was my old Jim!
I waked him up, and I reckoned it was going to be a grand surprise to him to see me again, but it warn't. He nearly cried he was so glad, but he warn't surprised. Said he swum along behind me that night, and heard me yell every time, but dasn't answer, because he didn't want nobody to pick him up and take him into slavery again. Says he:
“I got hurt a little, en couldn't swim fas', so I wuz a considable ways behine you towards de las'; when you landed I reck'ned I could ketch up wid you on de lan' 'dout havin' to shout at you, but when I see dat house I begin to go slow. I 'uz off too fur to hear what dey say to you—I wuz 'fraid o' de dogs; but when it 'uz all quiet a'gin I knowed you's in de house, so I struck out for de woods to wait for day. Early in de mawnin' some er de niggers come along, gwyne to de fields, en dey tuk me en showed me dis place, whah de dogs can't track me on accounts o' de water, en dey brings me truck to eat every night, en tells me how you's a-gittin' along.”
“Why didn't you tell my Jack to fetch me here sooner, Jim?”
“Well, 'twarn't no use to 'sturb you, Huck, tell we could do sumfn—but we's all right now. I ben a-buyin' pots en pans en vittles, as I got a chanst, en apatchin' up de raf' nights when—”
“What raft, Jim?”
“Our ole raf'.”
“You mean to say our old raft warn't smashed all to flinders?”
“No, she warn't. She was tore up a good deal—one en' of her was; but dey warn't no great harm done' on'y our traps was mos' all los'. Ef we hadn' dive' so deep en swum so fur under water, en de night hadn't been so dark, en we warn't so sk'yerd, en ben sich punkin-heads, as de sayin' is, we'd a seed de raf'. But it's jis' as well we didn't, 'kase now she's all fixed up ag'in mos' as good as new, en we's a got a new lot o' stuff, in de place o' what 'uz los'.”
“Why, how did you get hold of the raft again, Jim—did you catch her?”
“How I gwyne to ketch her en I out in de woods? No; some er de niggers foun' her ketched on a snag along heah in de ben', en dey hid her in a crick 'mongst de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin' 'bout which un 'um she b'long to de mos' dat I come to heah 'bout it pooty soon, so I ups en settles de trouble by tellin' 'um she don't b'long to none uv u'm, but to you en me; en I ast 'm if dey gwyne to grab a young white genlman's propaty, en git a hid'n for it? Den I gin 'm ten cents apiece, en dey 'uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht some mo' raf's 'ud come along en make 'm rich ag'in. Dey's mighty good to me, dese niggers is, en whatever I wants 'm to do fur me I doan' have to ast 'm twice, honey. Dat Jack's a good nigger, en pooty smart.”
“Yes, he is. He ain't ever told me you was here; told me to come, and he'd show me a lot of water-moccasins. If anything happens he ain't mixed up in it. He can say he never seen us together, and it 'll be the truth.”
I don't want to talk much about the next day. I reckon I'll cut it pretty short. I waked up about dawn, and was a-going to turn over and go to sleep again when I noticed how still it was—didn't seem to be anybody stirring. That warn't usual. Next I noticed that Buck was up and gone. Well, I gets up, a-wondering, and goes down-stairs—nobody around; everything as still as a mouse. Just the same outside. Thinks I, what does it mean? Down by the woodpile I comes across my Jack, and says:
“What's it all about?”
“Don't you know, Mars Jawge?”
“No,” says I, “I don't.”
“Well, den, Miss Sophia's run off! 'deed she has. She run off in de night some time—nobody don't know jis' when; run off to get married to dat young Harney Shepherdson, you know—leastways, so dey 'spec. De fambly foun' it out 'bout half an hour ago—maybe a little mo'—en' I tell you dey warn't no time los'. Sich another hurryin' up guns en hosses you never see! De women folks has gone for to stir up de relations, en ole Mars Saul en de boys tuck dey guns en rode up de river road for to try to ketch dat young man en kill him 'fo' he kin git acrost de river wid Miss Sophia. I reck'n dey's gwyne to be mighty rough times.”
“Buck went off 'thout waking me up.”
“Well, I reck'n he did! Dey warn't gwyne to mix you up in it. Mars Buck he loaded up his gun en 'lowed he's gwyne to fetch home a Shepherdson or bust. Well, dey'll be plenty un 'm dah, I reck'n, en you bet you he'll fetch one ef he gits a chanst.”
I took up the river road as hard as I could put. By and by I begin to hear guns a good ways off. When I came in sight of the log store and the wood-pile where the steamboats lands I worked along under the trees and brush till I got to a good place, and then I clumb up into the forks of a cottonwood that was out of reach, and watched. There was a wood-rank four foot high a little ways in front of the tree, and first I was going to hide behind that; but maybe it was luckier I didn't.
There was four or five men cavorting around on their horses in the open place before the log store, cussing and yelling, and trying to get at a couple of young chaps that was behind the wood-rank alongside of the steamboat-landing; but they couldn't come it. Every time one of them showed himself on the river side of the woodpile he got shot at. The two boys was squatting back to back behind the pile, so they could watch both ways.
By and by the men stopped cavorting around and yelling. They started riding towards the store; then up gets one of the boys, draws a steady bead over the wood-rank, and drops one of them out of his saddle. All the men jumped off of their horses and grabbed the hurt one and started to carry him to the store; and that minute the two boys started on the run. They got half-way to the tree I was in before the men noticed. Then the men see them, and jumped on their horses and took out after them. They gained on the boys, but it didn't do no good, the boys had too good a start; they got to the woodpile that was in front of my tree, and slipped in behind it, and so they had the bulge on the men again. One of the boys was Buck, and the other was a slim young chap about nineteen years old.
The men ripped around awhile, and then rode away. As soon as they was out of sight I sung out to Buck and told him. He didn't know what to make of my voice coming out of the tree at first. He was awful surprised. He told me to watch out sharp and let him know when the men come in sight again; said they was up to some devilment or other—wouldn't be gone long. I wished I was out of that tree, but I dasn't come down. Buck begun to cry and rip, and 'lowed that him and his cousin Joe (that was the other young chap) would make up for this day yet. He said his father and his two brothers was killed, and two or three of the enemy. Said the Shepherdsons laid for them in ambush. Buck said his father and brothers ought to waited for their relations—the Shepherdsons was too strong for them. I asked him what was become of young Harney and Miss Sophia. He said they'd got across the river and was safe. I was glad of that; but the way Buck did take on because he didn't manage to kill Harney that day he shot at him—I hain't ever heard anything like it.
All of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three or four guns—the men had slipped around through the woods and come in from behind without their horses! The boys jumped for the river—both of them hurt—and as they swum down the current the men run along the bank shooting at them and singing out, “Kill them, kill them!” It made me so sick I most fell out of the tree. I ain't a-going to tell all that happened—it would make me sick again if I was to do that. I wished I hadn't ever come ashore that night to see such things. I ain't ever going to get shut of them—lots of times I dream about them.
I stayed in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid to come down. Sometimes I heard guns away off in the woods; and twice I seen little gangs of men gallop past the log store with guns; so I reckoned the trouble was still a-going on. I was mighty downhearted; so I made up my mind I wouldn't ever go anear the house again, because I reckoned I was to blame, somehow. I judged that that piece of paper meant that Miss Sophia was to meet Harney somewheres at half past two and run off; and I judged I ought to told her father about that paper and the curious way she acted, and then maybe he would 'a' locked her up, and this awful mess wouldn't ever happened.
When I got down out of the tree I crept along down the river-bank a piece, and found the two bodies laying in the edge of the water, and tugged at them till I got them ashore; then I covered up their faces, and got away as quick as I could. I cried a little when I was covering up Buck's face, for he was mighty good to me.
It was just dark now. I never went near the house, but struck through the woods and made for the swamp. Jim warn't on his island, so I tramped off in a hurry for the crick, and crowded through the willows, red-hot to jump aboard and get out of that awful country. The raft was gone! My souls, but I was scared! I couldn't get my breath for most a minute. Then I raised a yell. A voice not twenty-five foot from me says:
“Good lan'! is dat you, honey? Doan' make no noise.”
It was Jim's voice—nothing ever sounded so good before. I run along the bank a piece and got aboard, and Jim he grabbed me and hugged me, he was so glad to see me. He says:
“Laws bless you, chile, I 'uz right down sho' you's dead ag'in. Jack's been heah; he says he reck'n you's ben shot, kase you didn' come home no mo'; so I's jes' dis minute a-startin' de raf' down towards de mouf er de crick, so's to be all ready for to shove out en leave soon as Jack comes ag'in en tells me for certain you is dead. Lawsy, I's mighty glad to git you back ag'in, honey.”
“All right—that's mighty good; they won't find me, and they'll think I've been killed, and floated down the river—there's something up there that 'll help them think so—so don't you lose no time, Jim, but just shove off for the big water as fast as ever you can.”
I never felt easy till the raft was two mile below there and out in the middle of the Mississippi. Then we hung up our signal lantern, and judged that we was free and safe once more. I hadn't had a bite to eat since yesterday, so Jim he got out some corn-dodgers and buttermilk, and pork and cabbage and greens— there ain't nothing in the world so good when it's cooked right—and whilst I eat my supper we talked and had a good time. I was powerful glad to get away from the feuds, and so was Jim to get away from the swamp. We said there warn't no home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don't. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft.
A “water-moccasin,” also known as a “cottonmouth” snake, is a venomous water snake found in the southern United States and especially common along the Mississippi River. Because their venom causes the area surrounding a bite to hemorrhage very quickly, they are extremely dangerous to humans. This is why Huck finds Jack’s behavior so strange—no one would be excited to find these snakes or go looking around for them.— Kayla, Owl Eyes Staff
“Coarse-hand” refers to writing something in print rather than in cursive. Huck tells Miss Sophia that he cannot read cursive, even though he can, which eases her anxiety about him possibly having read the letter.— Kayla, Owl Eyes Staff
A “mudcat” is a slang term for the “catfish” that can be found in the “muddy” Mississippi River. Huck uses the term as a way of characterizing his father as being of lower social ranking than Colonel Grangerford is, probably due to the fact that these catfish were very common, low-to-average quality, and generally did not fetch much on the market.— Kayla, Owl Eyes Staff
It's unclear exactly what this would be. Huck didn't fake his death the way he did at Pap's place, and there aren't any unidentifiable bodies on the shore that could be mistaken for Huck's. It could be that Twain is relying on the fact that Huck has already faked his murder once to make the reader assume that he has done it again here; but there is no concrete evidence that Huck has faked his death, so we're left to conjecture.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
Huck fails in his role as the watchman and allows the Shephersons to sneak up on Buck and Joe. It's unclear whether Buck's crying caused him to get distracted and lose the Shepherdsons in the brush or if he was just outwitted. Given how guilty Huck feels about it afterward, it's possible that his being a better scout might've made the difference; but it's impossible to know that for sure, and this might just be a case of him beating himself up for no good reason.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
Recall that earlier in this chapter Huck said of Col. Grangerford, "but when...lightning begun to flicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to climb a tree first, and find out what the matter was afterwards." Here, Huck does climb up a tree, not wanting to get in the line of fire, and in so doing abandons his friends in the fight. This is a rare moment of cowardice on Huck's part, and it doesn't end well for the Grangerfords.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
There's a hint of dismay in these words. Huck has been staying with the Grangerfords for long enough now to feel like he's more than just a guest and is, rather, a part of the family, but Buck's decision not to wake him up gives this the lie. Huck will never be part of this family or their feud, and, as Twain suggests, his real home is on the raft with Jim.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
This isn't entirely true. Jack can say that he hasn't seen Huck and Jim together, yes, but he can't say that he didn't know Jim was a fugitive, or that he didn't help a runaway slave. These were serious crimes in the antebellum south and would've resulted in any slave who helped Jim being beaten, if not worse. Huck knows this, of course, but fails to realize the full gravity of their situation (perhaps because he likes living with the Grangerfords so much).— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
Recall that Colonel Grangerford's exact words in Chapter XVII were: "If there's anybody with you, let him keep back—if he shows himself he'll be shot." It's lucky, then, that Jim was wounded and afraid of the dogs, because if he had even attempted to reach Huck, he would've been killed. This is a fine example of how the misunderstandings in this novel can lead its characters into dangerous (even deadly) situations.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
Jim appears just as a secret is about to be revealed about the feud and Miss Sophia, thus heightening the suspense and distracting the reader (and Huck) long enough for Miss Sophie to make her meeting at half past two. Twain distracts Huck with "water moccasins" rather than, say, bunnies, because when one is primed to meet something as dangerous as a snake one isn't expecting that snake to be sweet, nice, gullible Jim, whom Huck seems to have forgotten about in the midst of this feud.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
Notice the word "play" here. Miss Sophia uses it to infantilize Huck, to suggest that he's just a boy and that he doesn't have (or understand) the romantic feelings that this note produces; but in reality Huck, like many adolescent boys, understands what it means to be attracted to someone and can feel desire himself. That he doesn't quite figure out the meaning of Miss Sophia's note doesn't make him a child; it just suggests that she has a deep (and potentially dangerous) secret.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
A split log or a piece of timber lain on the ground in place of flooring. This usage is specific to North America and originated in the late 17th century. Twain uses it here to emphasize that this is the country and that the citizens of this town have made only the barest effort to build a clean, respectable place of worship. The pigs lazing about on this puncheon floor are symbolic of the townsfolk, who seek comfort and not personal salvation in the church.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
Predestination. A theological doctrine that asserts all events happen according to God's will and that an individual's fate has already been predetermined by God. This is an example of religious determinism, and it's part of the traditional doctrine taught by Roman Catholicism. Those who believe in predestination will often absolve themselves of guilt for their actions by saying that it was all God's will, and that may well be how the Grangerfords are justifying their actions to themselves.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
Twain's use of the word "ornery" here is telling. Typically, it means to be irritable or bad-tempered. Here, it means that the preacher's tone is combative, frustrated, and angry, likely because he's getting tired of this feud. The subject of his sermon (brotherly love) suggests that he has been trying to convince these two families to put their feud to rest, and that his advice has fallen on deaf ears. Their appreciation of the sermon only makes this all the more upsetting, because they refuse to apply his teachings to their own lives.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
Twain uses this senseless feud to both tragic and comedic effect: it's absolutely absurd that these families would blithely go around killing each other for no reason, and it's tragic because now the younger is paying for something that the older generation hasn't even bothered to remember. Huck's confusion about this feud further aligns him with the reader, who is also skeptical of the feud's efficacy.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
Here we see the central difference between the Shepherdsons and the Grangerfords: the fact that the Shepherdsons will take advantage or hide in the bushes instead of facing their enemies in the streets. It seems especially classless when we consider that the Grangerfords have, thus far, been characterized as the most aristocratic of families and that they likely never took "advantage" in this way before. Twain uses this little fact to align the readers with the Grangerfords.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
In this context, a "pommel" refers to the rounded knob at the front of a saddle, across which this young man has lain his gun so that it will be visible to passersby. This man is Harney Sheperdson, and his gun is a symbol for his violent, feuding nature. Recall, however, that Huck had a gun pulled on him when he first met the Grangerfords, and that both families are thus characterized as being quick draws who are suspicious of everyone and their motives.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
Keep in mind that Buck, though young and childish, has nevertheless grown up in a state of extreme privilege and has never really had to fend for himself. Thus further emphasizes the differences in character and temperament between him and Huck, who has grown up without servants and has had to learn how to do everything himself. Thus, by comparison, Buck is characterized as less resourceful and less clever than Huck, though we have no direct proof of this yet.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
In the 1800s, when this novel is set, most women were married off by the time they hit twenty-five, or if not married then certainly engaged. That Miss Charlotte isn't married should be considered a red flag, just as Bob and Tom living as bachelors can be seen as a red flag, given that they're older than Miss Charlotte and certainly have the means to marry. The Grangerfords children are thus characterized as part of a tight-knit family with reasons for staying together that we'll soon learn.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
One can easily imagine the Colonel and his wife nodding their heads ever so slightly at their children, not in deference but in expectation, as Tom and Bob go through the motions of pleasing them. In their slights nods we can clearly see the power dynamics at play in the Grangerford household: the Colonel rules with an iron fist, but not in such a way as to engender either dislike or bitterness. He might be an authoritarian, but his family would never think of disobeying him.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
Twain characterizes Col. Grangerford as aristocratic and authoritarian with both physical description (his high nose, his white linen suit) and anecdotal observations about the Colonel's position in his family and power to command respect. This combination leaves us with a good impression of Col. Grangerford, who, in spite of having what appears to be a domineering personality, comes across as cultured, beloved, and moneyed.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor